


When Auld Aquaintance be Forgot, and Never Brought to Mind... Good riddance

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:22:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: explosion</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Auld Aquaintance be Forgot, and Never Brought to Mind... Good riddance

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: grief, homophobic slurs, transphobia mentioned, kind of mental breakdown (sort of emotional explosion)

Gwaine watches the muscles in Arthur’s cheek tick as three very loud children run through the kitchen screaming the lyrics to ‘do you wanna build a snowman’ at the tops of their lungs. The tick has been waxing and waning all day, depending on the proximity of Arthur’s father and brother. Uther and Mordred are currently sat at the table eating tortilla chips and dip and talking loudly and obnoxiously about gay men.

“I have seen it, father,” Mordred says, “limp wrists, the lot of them.”

Gwaine winces as Arthur’s grip on his hand gets tighter and tighter, demonstrating a far from limp wrist. Gwaine uses his free hand to pat Arthur’s arm, hoping it’ll do something about the death grip Arthur has on him. Arthur just holds on tighter, sits up straighter, closes down harder. His face now looks like it would shatter if Gwaine were to so much as breathe wrong.

“I know, Arthur,” Uther says, “that you tell me gay men aren’t all like that, but I haven’t seen much to back up your argument. I mean, you’re not like the old queens I knew in my day, and you’re not much like the faggots that Mordred comes across at university.”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘faggot’, father,” Mordred says, pinking at the cheeks, “I just meant to say that the LGBT soc at St Andrews has a certain… breed.”

“The lifestyle just attracts a certain kind of gay, I suppose.”

“Excuse me, father,” Arthur says, getting stiffly to his feet and walking out of the kitchen.

Gwaine has no choice but to follow, Arthur’s grip on his hand so tight he can now not feel his fingers. 

“Upstairs, Arthur,” Gwaine hisses, “now.”

Arthur changes direction and stalks, actually stalks, up the stairs, taking them two at a time and looking so impressive and intimidating that a small aunt or cousin or some-such topples down them when she passes and has to be picked up out of a heap at the bottom. Arthur ignores her and throws open the door to their room, slamming it behind Gwaine, only just missing Gwaine’s fingers. 

“Might I have my hand returned, now?” Gwaine says, “only, it’s beginning to hurt.”

Arthur lets go. He stands at the window, hands behind his back, stood stiff and straight in a way that means two things; one, his back is hurting again. Two, he’s made his back hurt by holding himself in unnatural positions all day. 

“Until midnight,” Arthur says, “half past twelve. Then we will have rung the new year in and can come to bed.”

“Yes,” Gwaine says, though, secretly, he was hoping they could talk some of the younger Pendragons into slipping out to the pub. 

“What’s the time now?” Arthur asks.

“One-thirty.”

“Half an hour until lunch. We can safely stay up here, if we change our clothes.”

Gwaine reclines on the sofa and opens Arthur’s laptop to find some music, then digs out a spare set of clothes out of his bag and changes quickly. 

“How’s your back?” he asks, once Arthur’s relaxed an increment. 

“Sore. Not too bad though.”

“Good, good. Do you want a back rub?”

Arthur comes and sits on the corner of the bed, allowing Gwaine to sit behind him, so Arthur’s in the ‘v’ of his thighs. 

“Relax,” Gwaine says, “Shall I tell you all the things I want to do to you when we get home and you allow me?”

“No.”

Gwaine huffs. Arthur is no fun around his family. And Gwaine’s never been one for tact, so he tells Arthur that, which makes Arthur snort, as if the idea is funny. Gwaine doesn’t manage to work much of the tension out of Arthur before they’re called down for lunch, but Uther only gives them a slightly suspicious once over and only asks twice about where they’ve been, so Gwaine sits quiet and docile at Arthur’s side while they eat. 

The conversation is all business and soon turns to Pendragon Ltd and Mordred and Uther’s discussions on the company soon lead to Uther making pointed remarks about Mordred taking the reins. And responsibility and father and son relationships and how they’re built in family businesses. And how wonderful it is to have a son following in his footsteps and the small amount of good that had come from Gwaine’s massage is undone. Arthur’s stiff as a board at his side, lips tight, fork and knife pushing food around his plate.

“Your mother would be so proud of you, Mordred, my boy,” Uther says, jovial, cheeks pinked by alcohol.

Gwaine breathes out too harshly and loudly. Arthur swipes a large wineglass from the woman waiting on them and fills it up to the top, passing it off to Gwaine without a word. Gwaine hears the unspoken ‘drink until you can remain silent’ and downs half of it. Morgana appears, then, and for a moment Gwaine is glad of the distraction. But then the distraction looks their way.

“Gwaine,” Morgana says, silky and dangerous, “I’m so glad you made it. And Arthur, too. My dearly beloved brother.”

“I’nt that what you say at a grave?” Gwaine mutters, so only Arthur can hear. 

Arthur’s jaw twitches, but this time Gwaine knows it’s from stifling amusement instead of anger. Gwaine grins and squeezes Arthur’s hand under the table, taking a swig of wine before turning to Morgana.

“Ah, Morgan, my dear,” Gwaine says, standing and kissing her hand, “always a pleasure.”

“My dear duke,” she says, “it is good to see that you are not literally glued to Arthur’s side. The rumours have been dreadful.”

“I can peel myself away for you, of course, enchantress.”

Morgana takes her hand away, wiping it discretely, making sure Gwaine sees the gesture, and takes a seat next to Arthur. Gwaine’s seat next to Arthur. Gwaine sighs, saves his wine and goes to talk to Arthur’s great-grandfather, the black sheep of the family and pretty much the only bearable Pendragon present at these awful gatherings. 

“Young Arthur is struggling,” Kil says, when Gwaine joins him. 

“Yeah, he always does.”

“Poor thing. Tell me the football scores and let’s go over the last few games. Uther has banned me from pursuing one of the last pleasures on earth.”

“Rotting in front of the TV?”

“Indeed, Leinster.”

“Please, Kil, you may have known my father by his title but I haven’t gone by anything but Gwaine since I was six years old. Previous to which I wanted to be known only as coinin beag.”

“Eh?”

“Little rabbit,” Gwaine translates, grinning, watching Arthur. 

He goes over the last football game he watched for Kil while everyone finishes lunch, and then he gets up and wanders down the garden while desert is set out. Several people follow his lead, as he had hoped, and that gives Arthur his chance to escape. He doesn’t join Gwaine, but Gwaine sees him on his cousin’s arm, head bent to listen to her, escaped from Morgana’s clutches. Gwaine sits among the roses and drinks red wine with some kind of berry casis until Arthur comes to join him.

“How drunk are you?” Arthur asks.

“Tolerably.”

“Then join me. I must speak with my father.”

Gwaine nods and carefully hides his bottle back under the bench where he found them (probably curtesy of Mordred or Morgana, neither of whom will thank him for breaking into their stash) and gets up, offering his arm to Arthur. 

“Dare I ask about your back?” Gwaine says, as they stroll back the way Arthur just came.

“I would not, if I were you.”

Arthur’s got that hint of a smile again, which is all Gwaine ever gets out of him at these things. Gwaine gives Arthur’s arm a squeeze and Arthur leads him over to Uther. 

“Arthur,” Uther says, turning, welcoming him into the circle of businessmen he is commanding, immediately closing the gap on Gwaine. 

Gwaine steps back and ducks behind Arthur, squirming his way in on Arthur’s other side, nudging Uther’s associate gently and unobtrusively until he’s got himself a nice space tucked into Arthur’s side. He sips from his glass and beams at the people around him, acting the drunk. 

“Father, I wish to speak to you of my inheritance,” Arthur says, “if I may beg a few moments of your time?”

“I’m not dead yet!” Uther says, laughing, inviting the people around them to shudder and jiggle with jovial amusement.

“From my mother,” Arthur says, “I am twenty five next month, which means I will be able to control my own-“

“Yes, well, perhaps we’ll speak another time.”

“No, father, I must insist. I have a lot of work over the coming weeks and may not have another chance.”

“We will leave you to your business, sir,” the man next to Gwaine says, and they slip away. 

“Arthur,” Uther says, “this is a celebration for New Years, it is not the forum for such topics.”

“Perhaps not, I apologise for that. However, I would like to speak with you rather than any of the others who were left in charge of it.”

It takes all of Arthur’s skill to steer Uther through the perilous waters of ‘talking about Igraine’ without actually ‘taking about Igraine’. Arthur has a lot of skill with people and he is adept at reading his father, Gwaine knows no one who does it better. But when they move away, Arthur’s inheritance secured, including the seal Arthur wants to gift to Merlin, Arthur’s brittle and on edge. Which is perfect, seeing as they’re drifting by a group of men making a transphobic joke ending in ‘that’s what he said’.

Arthur moves on, muscles tightening. Gwaine knows he can’t take much more of this and decides containment is the best viable option. He has maybe an hour, two tops, before Arthur cracks. He has to time it right or Arthur will just glare and escape back into public and Gwiane will be left with the usual mess to clear up. Gwaine decides to speed things up and steers Arthur, very gently and subtly, over to where dear cousin Val is laughing lewdly. 

“Hullo, Wart old bean!” Val says, slapping Arthur’s back and drawing him into the conversation, as Gwaine knew he would. 

Gwaine slides away and goes to sit among the roses again, keeping an eye on his watch. Arthur comes striding down the path and yanks Gwaine up by his shirt collar only half an hour later. 

“You are not funny, Green,” Arthur snarls, before forcing Gwaine to once more take his arm and marching them back to the conservatory. 

Gwaine calculates and then steers them to Mordred, who’s sat at the piano, playing. Gwaine feels a tight pain at the way Arthur’s face immediately softens, the way his hand lands on the top of the upright instrument and Mordred smiles up at him.

“Arthur,” Mordred says, “sorry about the homophobia at dinner. I know it sucks, you know I don’t believe it. I want to change Pendragon Ltd, though, and to do that I have to persuade father to give it to me.”

“I understand,” Arthur says, jaw tightening again, “do not worry about it.”

“Good! Well, I have had rather too much to drink, I give up on you, Bach. Impossible man.”

“Try Liszt and then think about saying Bach is impossible.”

“No thank you!” Mordred laughs, leaping to his feet, and shoves Arthur down, “demonstrate, Arthur! Show us how it’s really done.”

The people around them all agree and Arthur has no choice but to play. He’s not brilliant, not like Mordred, but he has a good grasp of technicalities and his Liszt is almost moving. Gwaine knows it’s something that Arthur learnt, obsessively, as a teenager, after discovering it had been something his mother played. Gwaine winces when Uther strides in and clunks the lid closed on Arthur’s fingers, cutting the piece off midway through. No one on the other side of the piano notices.

“Enough,” Uther says, “let the guests enjoy real music!”

Uther clicks his fingers, which starts a playlist on a device plugged into speakers. Arthur gets stiffly to his feet and Gwaine seizes his moment, towing Arthur through into the hall, up the stairs and into the empty drawing room on that level. Arthur spins, face mottled with rage. Gwaine breathes out in relief as a chair goes sailing into the wall, closely followed by a pile of magazines. Then Arthur screams and comes at Gwaine, shaking him.

“I hate this!” Arthur yells. 

Gwaine thanks God for Uther’s careful soundproofing of the rooms and lets Arthur yell and rage and shout. Arthur starts sobbing at some point, spit still flying, still yelling. 

“I hate this I hate this,” Arthur repeats, quiet, hugging his middle, eyes shut to try and keeps tears that would squeeze out, in. 

He sobs again and Gwaine sighs, drawing him close, running a hand over Arthur’s back as he shakes apart. He hates Arthur having to come here, hates these parties, these people, the things it all does to Arthur. All he can do, though, is try and contain whatever explosion, of grief, anger, frustration, and then try and help Arthur heal.

“I want to go home,” Arthur moans into Gwaine’s neck, teeth grazing his skin.

“Shh,” Gwaine says. 

“Please, take me home.”

“This is the last time you have to do this,” Gwaine promises, “you’ll be twenty five in a month and then you’ll never have to come back, ever. We can stay in town with Merlin, our flat, our big bed. We can go out with our mates, next year, and they’ll know about us and it can be all of us. And I tell you what, when we get home tomorrow Merlin will be there waiting and he’ll make us pancakes and tell us how hung-over he is after trying to drink Lance and Perce under the table, and I’ll make cheese toasties later and we’ll have chips for tea, and you can slog about in your t-shirt from that webcomic you like and you can steal my joggers and pretend they’re yours.”

“And I can have Humphry just with me.”

“Yeah, you and Humph can stake out the sofa. The stupid mutt probably likes you best, anyway, though don’t tell Merlin I think so.”

“And Merlin can watch his god-awful Anime stuff, and you can watch your god-awful horror films, and me and Humphry can… I want to go home _now_!”

“I know, I know. Shall we ring Merlin?”

“No, no, please, Gwaine, I can’t do this. I know it’s the last, but I can’t… I can’t… I miss my mother, this year. Let’s ring Merlin.”

Arthur sits on the carpet while Gwaine presses the speed dial on his phone. 

“Hey Merlin!” Gwaine says, cheerfully, keeping an eye on Arthur, who seems to be melting into the (probably incredibly expensive) rug.

-Gwaine! Yay, it’s Gwaine!-

“Are you drunk already?”

-It’s five. That’s drun’ time. Izzit?-

“Arthur wanted to say hi.”

-aw, that’s sweet. He angry, sad, or…. The other thing?-

“number three, m’dear, number three.”

-poor prat. Pass him over, then.-

Gwaine crouches to press the phone into Arthur’s hand and then sits, spreading his legs to pull Arthur close. Arthur talks to Merlin about Igraine, about missing her, about his father and the phobic slurs and the anger and the bitterness and the awful, awful memories that linger in this house, and Gwaine holds on to him through it all and absorbs the waves of emotion as best he can. 

It’s an hour before Arthur can stand, and then half an hour before the swelling around his face and eyes goes down enough for Gwaine to tow him to the bathroom. It’s nearly eight by the time they re-join the company. Uther gives them a stern glare and opens his mouth to ask, then takes in the rumpled state of Gwaine’s clothes and seems to think better of asking that question. Gwaine grins like the cat that got the giant-ass-pheasant and holds Arthur’s arm for the next hour. 

Arthur buttons himself up once more, and the stiffening effect of the company is worse this time. By the time the fireworks finally go off and Arthur kisses Gwaine at midnight and gets through his relatives’ well wishes and questions even Gwaine’s about ready to just collapse. The first year they did this, or rather the first post-Merlin year they did this, Arthur had attempted to drive home after. They’d ended up trudging back up to the house after finding themselves in a ditch instead of on the road. Since then they’ve had the same room and they always just crash there. 

By the time they finally lie down Arthur’s in pain. Gwaine knows he’s in pain because he lies on his back instead of curling up like he usually does. Also because he skips doing his teeth, and because he limps, and for a hundred reasons that Gwiane can’t even name. 

“Turn over, let me help,” Gwaine says.

Arthur does as he’s told, complaisant, without his usual stubborn denial. Gwaine runs his hands gently over the muscles he knows aren’t sore, avoiding the place Arthur damaged so long ago. 

“As long ago, my love, so long ago,” Gwaine mumbles into Arthur’s skin, the particle of poetry slipping out by accident. 

Arthur folds his hand, as if around Gwaine’s words, and his eyes flutter shut on a sigh, mouth opening a little. This time Arthur actually manages to relax. 

Merlin greets them at their door, as the lift chimes, with a broad grin the next morning, a dressing gown tied over a pair of Gwaine’s pyjama bottoms. He holds out his arms for Arthur and makes a face at Gwaine to indicate the level of hungover he is. Arthur hobbles through to their bedroom for the promised joggers and t-shirt. 

“Ooh, that doesn’t look good,” Merlin mumbles.

“No. Last one ever, though. Pancakes?”

“I’ll get started on that. Humph!” Merlin clicks his tongue and the dog comes bouncing out, tongue lolling, “go find Arthur.”

Humphry waddles off after Arthur and Gwaine shuts the front door, glad to finally be home. It felt like they’d been gone for years. Merlin laughs and pulls Gwaine into his own greeting, kissing him warmly, still a bit sleepy and sloppy, and then they go through to prepare themselves for a day spoiling Arthur.


End file.
